


The Life We Can Lead Together

by under_a_linden_tree



Series: Where Light Is Must Be Dark [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Catharsis Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Moving In Together, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), but they must be had
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: While moving into a cottage together, Crowley stumbles upon a box of letters that Aziraphale wrote to him over the course of centuries, but never sent. It's the start of a conversation they need to have, even if they don't want to.Suddenly, he heard gentle steps on the floorboards behind him. He was entirely unprepared for the silence that followed them. Crowley wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he had been certain that the angel would say something when he saw him there, with the lidless sacred box of his innermost feelings in his hands.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Where Light Is Must Be Dark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895977
Comments: 14
Kudos: 129
Collections: GO-DIWS Prompt Sprints, Shinbi34's Recommendations





	The Life We Can Lead Together

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a single prompt supposed to be filled in 20 minutes. Needless to say, "letters" turned into a bit more than that.
> 
> A thank you to [Tarek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies), [Thyra279](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279) and [MovesLikeBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky) for beta-ing and encouragement.

Aziraphale had never talked about it. About letters and keepsakes and feelings. And now Crowley was standing in what was soon to be their shared living room, surrounded by moving boxes, holding a small case filled with letters in his hands, half its content spilled out across the floor.

Crowley hadn’t expected to find personal items in this box, which was otherwise stacked with books and bric-a-brac. He had thought that it was all supposed to fill the living room’s generous bookcases, which surrounded the telly taken from Crowley’s old flat in an odd mixture of their own things, just some trinkets to make the place more welcoming. Apparently, he had made a mistake.

It wasn’t entirely true, that Aziraphale had never talked about his feelings. He had, a single time, after the world hadn’t ended and this side of their own was still new. Words that were whispered with difficulty, under the covers of night, in a place where no-one could hear but them. They had been simple and painfully clear, meant to last them through another century at least. He had said those magic three words that humans are so intent on exactly once, and Crowley had marvelled at how much they could mean.

He felt like an intruder now, looking at the contents of the box in his hands. It was a finely crafted, sturdy case with a lock that had not been used, so Crowley had assumed that it would hold some trinket or another, a fancy set of ink and quills, whatever decorative item is both costly and not worth locking away entirely.

He knew he had misstepped when he saw worn paper instead, collected carefully and sorted by colour, sky blues and creams and a faded pink. Interspersed were pieces of papyrus and vellum, torn from the margins of a book. He recognised the handwriting; it hadn’t changed in the centuries passing between the first scrap of text and the last, adapting to systems and characters with ease.

Letters, accumulated over the course of hundreds of years, laid before him as though he had a right to see them. They were all addressed to him, and yet they were never sent, so Aziraphale clearly hadn’t intended for Crowley to lay eyes on them. There were so many of them, overflowing with words, words, words... 

He caught some of them here and there as he tried to sort the letters that had fallen to the ground back into the box. They were kind and they were tender and they were loving at times, cruel and reprimanding and shameful at others. Some shifted blame, others were grateful. Crowley could imagine how Pandora must have felt when she opened that jar of hers, saw that mixture of pain and hope escape and stay behind.

Suddenly, he heard gentle steps on the floorboards behind him. He was entirely unprepared for the silence that followed them. Crowley wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he had been certain that the angel would say  _ something _ when he saw him there, with the lidless sacred box of his innermost feelings in his hands. Instead, he just stood there, barely past the threshold, holding on to the teapot . His expression wavered somewhere between shock, concern and disappointment, before it finally settled on a vague discomfort.

Aziraphale busied himself swiftly, setting aside the pot on one of the still crooked, clothless side tables, next to the assortment of cups that was waiting to be relocated into the kitchen cabinets. ( _ Crowley had been too eager again, unpacking everything he could get his hands on. The angel had told him to stop, but he hadn’t listened, too distracted by the kind smile on Aziraphale’s lips. _ )

Crowley felt… he almost felt remorseful for something as simple as leaving cups around when he saw the frown on Aziraphale’s face, the stiffness of his hands as he stacked them to make space. Normally, Crowley would have asked Aziraphale if they needed sugar at this point. It had become something of a ritual between them, him asking that question, not because he thought that  _ Aziraphale _ wanted it, but because Crowley wasn’t ready to ask for it when he wanted it himself -- Aziraphale always took his tea without sugar, if anything, he drank it sweetened with honey and Crowley  _ knew  _ that, he  _ knew  _ him, he knew how Aziraphale’s inner machinations worked, he’d just been  _ surprised _ that he would express his feelings to a cold, blank piece of--

This wasn’t about tea anymore, was it?

Crowley still couldn’t believe that he was holding dozens of letters in his hands, perhaps -- most likely -- all about him, addressed to him, maybe even dating back to the Satan-blessed fourteenth century -- what would he have done for a single-lined letter back then! He would never have expected to stumble upon this.

Aziraphale drew a breath that was both deep and sharp at the same time, but his hands continued the motions just as usual: turn the cups so their handles align, tilt the pot, hold the lid so it doesn’t slide off, wipe away the drops clinging to the spout. When he handed the cup to Crowley (it was purple, a deep purple, when had they bought this one?), he squared his shoulders and seemed to steel himself, warding off all thoughts of anxious withdrawal that tended to follow him around and kept him from saying or doing things still. It would take him a long time to work through this, Crowley knew, even with his help -- if he’d have it.

“Have you read them?” he asked, when he handed Crowley the cup, careful not to let their hands brush. ( _ It shouldn’t have hurt that much, should it? It was just an avoided touch, it shouldn’t mean anything in the gross and scope of millenia spent forcibly apart. _ ) Aziraphale cleared his throat. “The letters, I mean. Have you read them?”

“No! Of course not!” That sounded far too defensive, didn’t it? “I wouldn’t ever-- believe me -- how should I have known that it’s letters, I couldn’t have known, could I?”

“I do believe you,” Aziraphale said, interrupting him before he could babble on any longer. “But you’ve still seen them, haven’t you? I don’t know what to think about that -- how to process that, rather.”

He ran a hand over his face and let it rest there for a moment, like it was a shield to keep him from the world and the conversations that took place in it. Then he picked up his cup and held on to it instead.

“You were never supposed to see them,” he concluded weakly before he sat down on the half-covered chaise-longue.

He looked odd there, sitting on the edge of it, all prim and proper, with the cup cradled in his hands. It was supposed to be Crowley’s spot, where he could lounge and laze about, and Aziraphale seemed strangely out of place there. Perhaps that would change at some point in the future, when their spaces had been given the time to merge together.

“Yes, I thought so,” Crowley said. “Wouldn’t have kept them otherwise, would you?”

He took a sip of his tea and found himself surprised once more. It tasted sweet, under the layer of rich smokey leaves and slightly too acidic lemon. Aziraphale hadn’t forgotten, not even now. Crowley could taste the remainder of the miracle on his lips, as he always did when Aziraphale conjured up food or drink from the ether.

And Crowley loved him for it, for the taste of sugar on his tongue, for the care he devoted to every tiny detail, for the invariable constant that Aziraphale’s affection was in his life.

Aziraphale sighed. “If I had intended for you to read them, I would have posted them, yes.” He remained silent for a moment, then he spoke up again, wringing his hands. “This is very hard for me to talk about.”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Crowley said quickly.

He didn’t want Aziraphale to feel pressured to say things he would regret at a later point in time, to give up what he was clinging to as though it were a final straw of hope, tying him together in the same shape he had always chosen for himself. Ramrod straight and square, grounded and even.

“But I do,” Aziraphale said, biting down on his lip anxiously. “That is -- I want to have this conversation. I think you deserve to know -- to know, yes.”

Nothing happened for another while. Crowley wasn’t quite sure what to respond. He tried to understand Aziraphale’s point: On the one hand, he was scared and uncomfortable at the thought of talking about the letters but on the other, he wanted to let Crowley know, remove this unexpected barrier between them. Crowley did not want him to talk about it, not when he saw how much conflict the thought of it alone let pass over his face, and yet he understood that it was a necessity for him. He couldn’t protect him from every discomfort the world had to offer, he knew that too, but Crowley couldn’t help feeling like there was something he should  _ do _ .

So he sat down next to Aziraphale, who was still sipping his tea in silence with a frown painted across his brow, just close enough for comfort and yet far away enough to refrain from touching him. He still didn’t quite know where exactly the line was and he was afraid of crossing it.

“You see,” Aziraphale eventually began. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.” When he said  _ this _ , he waved a hand between them, a weak gesture but with firm decision behind it. “I told myself that I couldn’t -- I couldn’t have this, I couldn’t want this, couldn’t even think about it -- but you know how it works, whenever you tell yourself that you cannot think about a particular thing, you invariably end up with this being the only thought that fills your mind.”

Crowley nodded and that seemed to reassure Aziraphale, who set the cup down onto the floor and twisted his ring. As calm as Crowley fought to appear, he was astonished that Aziraphale had seemingly devoted so much time and attention to what they were in the past and to what he thought they could never be. It made him feel a little worried about what the angel was going to say.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and then he continued.

“I thought that if I expressed them, the thoughts would -- vanish, at least for a while. And they did, even if it made me feel… hopeless. Melancholic, if you will. But at some point, that changed -- I felt like I would burst if I didn’t speak on it, if I kept those feelings to myself. So I wrote more letters, pretending that I could send them to you and  _ change _ things. I couldn’t get myself to burn them.”

“Would’ve felt like burning a part of yourself.”

Aziraphale nodded. The idea that he had wanted to change things, and a long time ago already, did something to Crowley’s heart. Aziraphale, who liked steadiness and constancy and groundedness, had wanted to turn their world upside down and reshuffle their cards. Crowley felt a bit overwhelmed by that knowledge, if he was honest with himself, but he also felt strangely proud of the angel for his decisiveness, even if he hadn’t acted on it.

“I couldn’t help it. There was no-one I could talk to, no-one who could help me sort out what I felt and… assign signatures to it, so I could file it away. That was all that I wanted, to lock those feelings away for safekeeping.”

He reached down onto the cushions between them, searching for Crowley’s hand. His fingers trailed along the upholstery until they found it, gently brushing over his wrist and knuckles until they slipped past the spaces between Crowley’s fingers. He held them there, tips firmly pressed against the cushions, so Crowley decided to intertwine them with his own and hoped it was alright.

Judging by the weak smile that passed over Aziraphale’s face, it was. It faded far too soon, that gentle thing. Crowley understood -- it would take him more words, more gestures, more time. Still, Aziraphale continued.

“I… I wrote many things down.” He swallowed hard and hesitated for a moment, but then his expression grew more determined. “Some things, I am not proud of. I gave you the blame many times, wrote that you must have tempted me, that I would never give in to you and your tricks. Which, I know, is simply not true, you never did that, but I had to reason what I felt away. I had to -- to get myself to believe you wronged me. I didn’t know what else to do.”

His voice broke a little on that last sentence and not for the first time since the world didn’t end, Crowley could hear that he was on the precipice of tears. He had never seen him cry before that day -- the day at the bandstand -- but ever since, Aziraphale had allowed himself to occasionally let down his guard. It was a sign of trust, and Crowley cherished it for what it was.

He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand in reassurance. “It’s okay, angel. I know you don’t mean it.”

“How can you be sure about that when I wasn’t even certain myself? I’ve wronged you.” He seemed like he truly doubted himself. It made Crowley feel uncomfortable. Worried.

“I know you, you aren’t like them -- like the lot upstairs. You wouldn’t --”

“But I  _ have _ wronged you before!” Aziraphale called out and his shoulders shook, just once, as though he were trying to throw off a feeling that clutched onto his back and left him gasping for air.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley said, as gently as he could.

His hands were twitching with the need to touch him, to comfort him, but Crowley didn’t know if that would be welcome. At the same time, Crowley knew that he didn’t have the energy to continue that conversation, not now. They would have to talk about it, about the wrongs they had done  _ to each other _ \-- that hadn’t been a one-way-street, now had it? -- but not today, not in the middle of half-unpacked moving boxes and furniture still covered by protective blankets.

“Let’s tackle that some other time, angel? Just the letters today, okay? We’ll take it one at a time,” he said, almost pleading.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and loosened his grip on Crowley’s hand a little. Crowley hadn’t even noticed how strong it had become, focused as he had been on his words. “One at a time, yes, good.”

“Can you do that?” Crowley asked, just to make sure.

“Yes. Yes, I can.” Aziraphale wiped at his cheek and checked the back of his hand, where a few tears remained behind. “Thank you.”

A couple of moments passed in silence between them, and Crowley grew a little restless, worried that he had misstepped and ushered Aziraphale into a corner that he wouldn’t be able to talk in, although he had said that it was okay. He still often insisted he was fine despite himself, when he did not feel well and when he did not want to talk. They were working on that, too, slowly and steadily.

“Right,” Aziraphale said after a while and something seemed lighter about him. Like he’d taken a decision that helped him settle. “You see, I was… I was upset when I saw you there, with the letters. I’d always been afraid that someone would find them and when you did, I was completely unprepared. There’s too much of myself in them; things I wouldn’t talk about. I was afraid that you had read them, even though I know that I can trust you.”

“I understand that, yeah.” Hearing Aziraphale say out loud that he trusted Crowley did something to him. It made him feel  _ happiness _ , that unconditional, warm emotion that filled his ribcage all of a sudden and remained, made him want to smile and bubble over with laughter.

There would be time for that later. Maybe they could turn on the telly tonight, watch a fun show together, one that Aziraphale enjoyed more than Crowley, to find some comfort and smiles there. He’d give him some space and ask him later, when Aziraphale had had time to himself, to compartmentalise the experience and how he felt about it. Perhaps he could go out into the garden in the meantime, plant a few of the flowers they’d chosen together.

“The thing is,” Aziraphale began tentatively, “that’s not all that I was worried about.”

“What else? You can tell me, you know -- anything you want. I won’t -- I won’t condemn you or anything.”

He hoped that those words would help Aziraphale gather the courage he needed to trust Crowley with whatever was on his mind, even if they weren’t much. It was still hard for him to say such things, too, but one of them had to bring them up if they wanted to move on.

Aziraphale sighed.

“I -- alright, yes. I assume you haven’t seen the dates on the letters?” He sounded a little hopeful there.

“No I haven’t. I told you I haven’t read them, just saw a few words here and there.”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale ran his palm across his face, squared his shoulders and rose from the chaise-longue, reluctantly letting go of Crowley’s hand. He walked over to the side table where the box was standing, lid still laying next to it on top of a couple of folded letters. With determination, he sorted through them, picking out first one, then another, and finally settling on a third one. Wordlessly, he handed it over to Crowley.

The paper felt oddly crisp against Crowley’s fingers, like it hadn’t been touched very often. No dust had settled in its fine ribbing yet and the colour was still a brilliant white. It almost felt like printer paper, but heavier.

Aziraphale watched him, unflinchingly, as he unfolded the letter.

_ July 17th, 2025 _

_ My dearest, dearest Crowley, _

the letter began. For a moment, Crowley hesitated. He still felt as though he were a trespasser, stumbling his way around Aziraphale’s well-fenced off plot of land. Then he realised two things in quick succession: That this only made the angel nervous again and that he had almost missed a very important detail -- the date.

“That’s two weeks ago,” he said, unhelpfully.

“Yes,” Aziraphale responded.

_ Oh. _

“So you wrote this… letter instead of talking about your feelings? Am I understanding that correctly?”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley didn’t quite know what to think about that. It made perfect sense that he wouldn’t just -- stop writing things down, not when he still felt them. At the same time, however, it hurt him to know that he wasn’t -- that he wasn’t  _ adequate _ enough to be the one hearing what weighed down on Aziraphale’s heart.

“You know that you can… tell me things, right?” he said, very carefully.

For the first time since they had sat down next to each other, where an empty spot now felt cold next to Crowley, Aziraphale was meeting Crowley’s eyes again, and resolution lay in his gaze.

“You  _ can _ read that one, if you want.”

That surprised him. “You don’t mind?”

“I do, actually,” Aziraphale said, quite sincerely. “But I also think that it would genuinely help this conversation along if you read the letter.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I still find it hard to… express certain things, and I hope that you can read what I wrote and understand a little better. It might make it easier, in the future, to live together.”

Crowley considered that for a moment. It didn’t feel right to intrude on thoughts that were never meant for his eyes, which was odd, since many things just tended to  _ feel right  _ where Aziraphale was concerned. But then he imagined the future that lay directly ahead of them, and imagined miscommunications and secrets and discomfort whenever emotions came up, and he knew what he prefered.

“Alright.”

He focused on the neat cursive that was written across the snow-white, pristine paper. It was shaky in some places and firm in others. Strangely enough, Crowley could feel that useless, tell-tale heartbeat in his chest grow stronger.

_ July 17th, 2025 _

_ My dearest, dearest Crowley, _

_ it is the middle of July and I can barely rest throughout the day. If asked, I would blame it on the weather -- the heat, the humidity, the air standing still in the streets -- but it could not be further from the truth. I find myself anticipating the warmth -- I think it might have to do with the thought of a garden, where our trees have yet to grow and the sun is burning mercilessly. I wonder if we will be freckled by the end of the summer, when we can hide from the cold within the walls of our own home. _

_ And there’s the thing -- our  _ home.  _ It’s an odd thought, isn’t it? That after all those millenia, we should have a space of our own, a place that is our own creation, and ours alone, where we can  _ be  _ together. I want that so badly, to simply  _ be _ with you, and yet I am afraid. _

_ I can’t quite pinpoint what scares me. I think it’s the thought that you could see me for who I am and after all these years still realise in me someone else than who you thought I was. Does that make sense to you? You’ve known me for so long, and yet I’m afraid of misstepping, not by choice but by accident, by being too much or too little. _

_ I know that it is foolish of me to think so. You have proven yourself, time and time again, to be more loyal than I could ever have wished for. I can’t imagine you running at anything that I am. You could not run, not even when you wanted to. I say a prayer in gratefulness whenever I think of it. Call me silly, if you’d like, but I do. _

_ This is not self-deprecation. I do not want pity. As I am sure you know well, it is hard to overcome what we both went through. I was never enough to them, I know that now -- I think I always knew it if I’m honest with myself, but I don’t think I can do that yet -- but to you, I was. Now, however, I am almost consumed by an irrational fear that I might not be enough for you after all. That makes it sound as though you would abandon me, I’m afraid, but even within the worst of fearful scenarios, it is never your wish to hurt me. It’s the idea that you might be… disappointed with me. That I might not make you as happy as you deserve to be. _

_ It’s been six years now, and I still cannot express this to you directly. I am not sure if I can even wrap my head around it myself. There will be more time, I hope, to work this out to my own and, following that, to your satisfaction. _

_ It’s been six years since then, that day, you know the one. We have come so far, the two of us, and I can barely wait to see where this will take us. I want to share this with you, every moment of the life we can lead together, and I want to share it without worry, without fear. _

_ It’s been six years and I love you so dearly and I can barely even bring myself to say it. I want to -- I want to tell you that I love you; I love you so, so dearly, but I find myself tongue-tied whenever I try. I would tell you when you hold my hand, and I would tell you when you bring me breakfast on a Sunday morning, suggesting to stay inside. Everything would call for my love for you to be spoken. _

_ I wish I could tell you, find the courage to do so. There will be a day, when I am comfortably settled in our cottage, perhaps -- gosh, isn’t that a thought? -- snuggled up against you on the sofa we bought together today, a day when I can tell you. _

_ Everything seems so much more real now, doesn’t it? The good and the bad. Perhaps that’s what things are like, on our side, where some things are more human than occult or ethereal. _

_ I am counting the days until I am with you, always. _

_ Love, Aziraphale _

Crowley put the letter down.

He tried to understand the words he had just read, tried to make sense of them. It had never occurred to him that Aziraphale might be afraid of -- being rejected because of who he was and how he tried to work on the issues that remained, even after years of being away from Heaven and Hell. At the same time, he felt oddly overwhelmed with the words he’d read, words Aziraphale had never said, but that were true all the same. It made him feel warmed to the core and nervous both. How should he react -- would he be expected to return this favour of trust?

Aziraphale bit his lip and Crowley realised that he should say  _ something _ . Anything, really.

“I’m not disappointed with you, angel. You know that, yeah?” was what he settled on, picking up on one of the concerns expressed in the letter.

He noticed how a little bit of tension faded from the heavy-set line of Aziraphale’s shoulders, how a cautious look of relief passed over his face. It encouraged him to go on, say things he wouldn’t express otherwise, even if they were ever-present in his heart.

“And I want to share all this with you too. I -- I want you for who you are, not despite that, and when I say I want to do this together, then I don’t just mean moving in and living with each other.”

Aziraphale smiled a little at that, and this tiny thing made Crowley’s heart overflow with a calm, gentle joy. It always did. “You want my problems too.”

Without hesitation, he answered, “Yes.”

“And my silences.”

“All of them.”

If he had needed to, he would have listened to Aziraphale’s silences for another century, even if the only hope he could have entertained was that by the end of this time, he would know that what he wanted was  _ right _ and that he wouldn’t be pushed away without words.

“And my letter writing,” Aziraphale said, returning to the matter that was, quite literally, on hand. The paper was starting to crinkle in Crowley’s palm.

“Yes. And I don’t have to read them, not if you don’t want to.”

He meant it, with all the honesty he could muster. Another moment passed in silence, during which Aziraphale nodded, gratefully. He seemed to think about an answer, but finally decided against it. Instead, he picked up the letters that had been scattered one by one and carefully stored them in the box, closing the lid but keeping it unlocked. It was a sign of trust and it was touching, but he would have the time to feel oddly touched by it later.

“Come here,” Crowley said and petted the free spot next to him on the chaise.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement and settled in against the cushions, folding his hands neatly in his lap. He looked so much less uncomfortable already, settled enough for Crowley to dare touch him now. He brought up an arm to rest around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and when the angel sighed contentedly and leaned into him, he wrapped his other arm around his waist, too.

He was warm and soft in their embrace, as he always was. Perhaps that was what he liked best about a world in which they were free to do what they wanted, to hold and to be held in turn, for Aziraphale had now brought up his hands to Crowley’s back. They rested there, pressed gently against his shoulder blades.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered softly, burying his face against Crowley’s shirt for a short moment.

Crowley could smell his usual cologne, warm and familiar, and it suddenly occurred to him that this would be one of the first things he’d notice whenever he entered the house, something to signal  _ home _ . The thought made him smile.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked, rubbing his palm across Aziraphale’s back. “And don’t just say yes if you don’t mean it.”

“What am I supposed to say if I am, then?” Aziraphale said, and the slightest trace of mischief was in his voice. He pressed his face against Crowley’s shoulder gently, almost like a cat. “I’m fine now. I could be better but -- you know. It takes some time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Aziraphale let go of him then and looked at him, with tenderness and trust in his eyes. He looked grateful, and gentle, and Crowley loved him so much. He hoped that he’d never hurt Aziraphale again, but he knew just as well that there would be many more stones in their way, wounds that hadn’t yet healed, but which they could try to care for together.

He also saw the exhaustion in Aziraphale’s eyes, the toll this unexpected conversation had taken on him, and he decided to give them both some rest.

“I’ll head for the garden, get some work done out there,” he said, slipping his hands off Aziraphale’s waist.

Aziraphale smiled a little, holding on to Crowley’s hands for a moment longer. “Well, you still lack plants you can chastise. You should plant some of the ones you brought here from London.”

“Think I’ll keep them on the terrace for a while, plant the trees first. That’ll teach them.”

When Aziraphale shook his head at that in his usual pretend exasperation, which he reserved for Crowley alone, Crowley had a feeling that things were alright between them. He rose from the chaise-longue and leant down to place a kiss on Aziraphale’s hair, soft curls pressed against his nose.

The angel kept his eyes closed as Crowley went to leave the room, but interrupted him before he could reach the door. He cleared his throat and said, softly, “Thank you for giving me some space.”

Crowley smiled at that. He couldn’t have helped it, even if he’d wanted to.

“I’ll plant the pear tree for you.”


End file.
